


Succès Praliné: Cake for One (or Two)

by Jakowic



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (Cake) Slice of Life, Fluff and Smut, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Slice of Life, Smut, cake baking for idiots, disgusting descriptions of baking, sorry alfred :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26100841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic
Summary: The succès praliné is a classic traditional French patisserie. Made with one layer of almond meringue and one of crisp chocolate-hazelnut meringue, it satisfies the desire for a savory cake with a nutty finish. Spread between the layers is a rich praline buttercream, which pairs nicely with the nutty finish of the cake. Whipped cream and candied strawberries decorate the top.How hard could it be?-The kitchen is a warzone. Flour coats every available surface, eggs are splattered on the walls and the ceiling. Cinnamon and brown sugar are knocked over the edge of the counter, creating a brown waterfall amid the piles of white powder. On the kitchen island there are mashed strawberries, spread against the surface like the insides of a dead man. It is what could be very generously described as an explosion.Standing in the center of it, untouched, save for a swipe of flour on his nose, is Dick Grayson. He gives Jason a sheepish smile.Jason counts to three, inhale, meditative exhale.He lunges, murder in his eyes.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 12
Kudos: 161
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2020





	Succès Praliné: Cake for One (or Two)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IrwinLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrwinLives/gifts).



> here's the prompt:  
> "You forgot to add sugar"  
> "Well, does it really need sugar? "  
> "It's a birthday cake Dick, yes it fucking needs sugar"  
> \- Dick's decided to make Bruce a birthday cake, and possibly give Jason an aneurysm while he's at it.  
> (Doesn't need to contain this scene or lines just the general sentiment, and it doesn't have to be Bruce's birthday, it could be Damians or someone else's, just keep it fluffy and fun thank you.)  
> \----  
> this takes place when Jason and the Bats are at a relatively stable place, even though Jason absolutely still kills people he doesn't like. it's Steph's birthday!!!
> 
> sorry that it still had some angst, i feel like i kept it relatively lighthearted if you consider the nature of these characters and their backgrounds. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: i do not know how to bake this specific cake! i just thought it sounded tasty.
> 
> i hope i did your imagination justice!
> 
> thank you to my friend diya for beta-ing this !!

It's some godawful time of night, technically better classified as the morning, and Jason wakes up thirsty.

It transports him back to the good ol' days, when he was first Bruce's kid. He remembers getting used to sleeping in the soft billionaire beds that cradled his back instead of forcing him into some uncomfortably crooked position, waking up in the twilight hours, blurry vision and half-panicked that he didn't immediately recognize the room. He remembers keeping a pocket knife under his pillow, less for _just in case_ and more because he could actually sleep with his hand curled around it.

But he's not thirteen, and he isn't going to cry out in the dark to bring Bruce and Alfred running down the hall. No one's going to come.

Jason sits up with a grunt, the wound in his shoulder pulling tight. It doesn't hurt, despite Tim's hemming and hawing over it. It takes a lot for Jason to hurt since the pit.

His mouth is dry and sticky in that way that happens when you've gone to sleep dehydrated, and he debates drinking out of the bathroom faucet instead of making the trek to the kitchen. But Jason's always liked how the water filter on the fridge made water taste, he's spent so long ingesting whatever was in the public pipes of Gotham City, it's kinda hard to go back. Yeah, yeah. He did get a little spoiled from being Bruce's kid. Sue him.

He'd come in earlier with blurred vision and exhaustion creeping up at the edges of his limbs, only making it to the bed because of gentle hands guiding his path. He hadn't even checked whose room they'd gone into. He stands up, recognizes the bookshelves lining the walls, filled to the brim. Sees the Wonder Woman logo patterned on the curtains.

He takes in his old room in the half-light from the lamp sitting on the bedside table. Alfred must've left it on. It looks exactly the same it did the day Jason died, minus dirty laundry. There are open notebooks and a calculus textbook tossed onto the desk, pens and papers dripping off the side and onto the carpet. It looks like the room had just frozen when Jason had died, his things waiting patiently for him to return. Jason wanders over to the desk, peering down at his messy fifteen-year-old scrawl.

It's just a bunch of math equations. There's a Dickens open, face down, on the left of the notebook. Jason narrows his eyes, looks away. 

He leaves, creeping into the hallway, nothing but a whisper of movement. He doesn't know where Damian or Alfred sleep, but he takes care to be extra quiet just in case. It's pitch black out in the hall. The only reason he can see in front of him is the pit, his eyes are bright now, lighting up the space immediately in front of him like a flashlight permanently seared into his forehead.

Tim had said Bruce was in Tokoyo, which is the only reason they'd managed to drag him here for a patch-up, but Jason's heart is thudding hard as he slides down the staircase anyway. He feels thirteen again, creeping down the manor steps with a pack of pickpocketed cigarettes and a shoplifted lighter about to be caught by the Batman himself.

No one meets him when his boots touch the foyer. 

Jason rounds the staircase, heads toward the kitchen. He pauses. The light's on under the door and there's the grey splotch of a shadow moving around. Jason stops, quiets his breathing and slows his heartbeat. He hears the rustle of movement, the exhales and incomprehensible muttering, the footfalls of someone pacing. There's the rustle of a package and the sounds of cupboards opening and closing.

An assassin or a criminal wouldn't be screwing around in the kitchen. Unless they broke in specifically for kitchen-related crimes. Jason can think of a few.

Jason swings the door open and takes in Dick Grayson. He's wearing a soft t-shirt that might've been white once-upon-a-time but has turned into a light grey, a pair of sweatpants Jason recognizes as his slung low on Dick's hips. Dick turns away from whatever he's doing, gripping a box of baking soda tight in his hand. He's rocking an epic bedhead and the guilty expression of a child caught doing something they know they shouldn't. Jason spots the counter, covered in baking supplies and measuring cups, and raises his eyebrow.

"What're you doing?"

Dick must remember that Jason doesn't actually have any authority over him, because his face changes, lightens up. "It's Steph's birthday coming up, so I just thought that I'd do something, you know, while you were stuck here. We'd all be together."

Jason doesn't bother telling Dick that he'd never do that. He doesn't know Spoiler well enough and he's terrible at parties. His expression must show exactly what he's thinking because Dick seems to wilt, smile fading away and eyes growing serious. He literally droops, the baking soda tipping dangerously toward the floor as his muscles go slack.

Jason's never liked seeing Dick sad. He saw it plenty when they were kids, the aftermath of whatever catalyst between Dick and Bruce is constantly happening. But there's an image of Robin, of Dick, the shiny white grin and the joyful stretch of his body against the Gotham skyline. It's kneejerk, Jason's instinct to fix it, it's almost uncontrollable. He's taking the baking powder from Dick's hands and setting it on the marble countertop before he knows what's happening.

"I can help," he offers, more to the ingredients than Dick.

Dick clears his throat. He hesitates, fingers curing at the pockets of Jason's sweatpants. "I didn't actually pick a recipe," Dick admits. "I don't know what I was gonna do."

Jason stares at him. Of course, Dick Grayson, chronic hero and original Boy Wonder cannot cook to save his life. Go figure, he's so naturally and immediately gifted at everything else. Dick's face twists up into defensiveness.

"You're judging me," he complains. "I can feel it."

Jason exhales softly, feels the corner of his mouth lift involuntarily. "You were gonna freestyle a cake."

"Okay, Mr Baker Savant, what's your plan?"

Dick's got his chin tilted up, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is challenging and a little cocky, and even though he looks soft, sleep-rumpled, and he's not wearing a mask, it pulls one of the tripwires in Jason's brain. He reaches around Dick, slides his fingers along the underside of the counter. Dick doesn't break eye contact, and he has to tilt his head to maintain it as Jason looms over him. He's got the beginning of a five o'clock shadow tapering his jaw and the slightest sheen of oil on the roots of his hair. His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, and Jason's throat goes dry.

Jason's mouth is parted, and he can feel his pulse thrumming violently in his veins. His fingertips catch on the latch and tug. On the wall, next to the mirror, opposite the fridge, a small painting depicting a little English town slides open to reveal a hollowed secret compartment in the wall. Dick leans around Jason to look at it, eyebrows raised, baffled. Smirking, Jason takes a step away from Dick.

"What the hell is that?"

"'s where Alfred keeps his recipes. Top secret family recipes he's entrusted the location of unto me. Don't tell."

"Goddamn," Dick whistles appreciatively, walking over and taking sliding the cookbook off the shelf. "Pennyworth don't play." He flips it open, delighted grin on his face.

"It's Alphabetical," Jason says helpfully. "There are tabs on the--"

"I got it, I got it." Dick says, locating the tab and flipping all the pages to C. "Hm," he says, after a few more curious flips. "There are only three cake recipes."

Jason crosses the kitchen and leans over Dick's shoulder. He's right, flipping between the pages, there's almost no mention of cake at all. Jason furrows his brow, confused. A generational cookbook curated by dozens of Pennyworths should not have a meager three cake recipes. What about the classics? Lemon cakes? Carrot cakes? The general cake pyramid cannot be completed within these three pages alone. It's a crime. A travesty.

"This is completely unjust," Jason says aloud.

Dick gives him a funny look. "Let's just do this one," Dick slides his index finger along the edge of the page. The paper of the recipe is old and yellowing, and for a second Jason's half afraid it will disintegrate from the mere brush of Dick's fingerpad. "Seems easy enough."

Jason can tell from the curly cursive and the accent marks that the recipe is French. "Why not something easier?" Jason ventures, out of cowardice and his basic unwillingness to confront French cuisine.

Dick jerks the book away protectively. "What, you don't think I can do it?"

"No," Jason says, raising his hands in a _calm down_ gesture that he regrets immediately. Dick's nostrils flare. Jason puts his hands away. "I've done French food before, it's a lot harder than it looks. It has to be _exact_ or it turns out all shitty."

"Steph likes hazelnuts," Dick says in his Nightwing-in-the-warzone voice, decisive and commanding. "We're doing this one. Grab that bowl and get the mixer."

Jason's halfway to the cabinet before he realizes what he's doing. He's suddenly annoyed, the hindbrain instinct to listen to Dick's every command doesn't shut off when they're not in the field apparently. Betrayed by his own body. He tosses a look at Dick over his shoulder, and Dick's got this smug grin on his face. Jason stops, stubborn contrarian kicking in even as he thinks that he genuinely wants to be helping.

"Don't be so... _snotty_."

"Oh, come on. Jace. Just get the bowl. It'll go faster if you just help."

Jason hesitates, torn between the desire to start an argument and the other, quieter one, that sees Dick's sleepy figure and his family-fueled eager mania and just... _wants._

"Jace," Dick says softly. It's almost a whisper, not quite a plea. But he must know what it does to Jason, because he's using it like a weapon, pointed straight at the vulnerable soft spot of Jason's unarmored chest.

It works anyway, and Jason gets the bowl and the heavy KitchenAid mixer down from the shelf above the stove.

"Do we have hazelnuts and stuff?" Dick asks, propping the book up on the counter, against the wall. 

"We have everything. Have you seen our pantry?" Jason asks, only barely catching on the _we_ and _our._ Since when did he feel comfortable in this house, among these people?

Dick shoots him a grin as he passes Jason on his way to the giant walk-in pantry. He's muttering and counting nonsensically on his fingers, listing things off. Jason watches as Dick disappears into the abyss. For a moment, Jason stands still, contemplating the quiet of the kitchen, the years he's spent away from Gotham and how his body moved on instinct when he'd returned (the hotdog cart run by Manny on the quietest street in the Narrows, the fastest way to his favorite gargoyle, the YMCA spent nights at) before he's propelled into the pantry after Dick for fear of being left alone with that train of thought.

Dick's lost in cake, muttering to himself as he picks things up and adds them to the growing and precarious pile in his left arm. Jason eyes it warily before realizing that Dick's grabbing taco seasoning instead of cinnamon. He intercepts, snatching the taco seasoning out of Dick's hands before he can add it to the pile of nuts and candied strawberries. Dick shoots him a glare.

"What the hell?"

Jason shakes the container at him. "Taco seasoning. Unless you want a beefy Mexican cake, in which case you can have this back."

"Are you sure? I could've sworn it was cinnamon. It _looks_ like cinnamon."

"Alfred organizes the pantry by amount of use. Cinnamon's gonna be by the door."

Dick shrugs, turns, and heads back toward civilization and the kitchen. Jason sets down the taco seasoning and follows him. He picks up the jar of ground cinnamon, labeled in Alfred's handwriting, and smiles wryly at the bottle.

"How do you know this stuff anyway? I mean, how do you know what Alfred does in the kitchen?" Dick asks.

"I was a half-starved stray when B dragged me in," Jason tells the shelf of cinnamon and vanilla. "When I wasn't reading, or in the basement, I was in here. I still have trouble remembering some things from before the pit, or some things after, but I remember this. It was good. I guess I was eager to learn how to cook. Maybe I just wanted to be near all the food."

He means it as a joke, but his voice betrays him and it comes out more soft than he wants it to. When he looks back up, Dick's staring at him, eyes soft, mouth caught in a sad half-smile. Jason's seen pity, he's seen it on Roy and the girls whenever he has to mention Before, and this isn't pity. Dick's looking at Jason like he's said something sweet, like he's admitted to liking kittens or planting flowers.

Dick raises the cinnamon bottle and gives it a shake. "We're gonna make cinnamon whipped cream. I saw it on the internet."

"That's a terrible idea," Jason says, following Dick out of the pantry.

Dick's back at the fridge, pulling out the cream, strawberries, and the sugar and setting them down on the granite top kitchen island. God, sometimes Jason forgets what _billionaire_ means until he has to string a sentence together to describe something Bruce owns.

Dick's produced a pink, frilly apron from somewhere while Jason was distracted and is tying it behind his back when Jason nears the island. It's so fucking stupid, and Dick looks like a supremely magical type of douche in it. He looks like the Rock in that _Tooth Fairy_ movie.

"You should start on the cake part," Dick says, cheerfully frilly. "We'll meet in the middle and get done at the same time."

"Optimistic," Jason mutters even as he steps forward.

It doesn't actually look that difficult, and for a minute Jason's sure they're going to do just fine. There's no end product picture, so Jason's hoping the description will be enough to sustain them until the end. He's measuring out some flour into a dry ingredients bowl when he hears Dick quietly cussing out his end of the cake responsibility stick _._

Jason looks over at him. He's surrounded by eggshells and about four small bowls filled with eggs, hair mussed even worse than earlier and he's got a sour expression marring his features. For a minute, Jason just observes as Dick attempts to crack an egg. As Jason watches, Dick breaks the yoke into the white. He exhales harshly through his nose, clearly fed up, brows drawn down, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

Jason can't help it. He smiles.

"Let me," he murmurs, stepping in and taking over. Dick relinquishes his eggs with a dramatic huff and a roll of his eyes, pink and frilly apron undercutting his theater show quite a bit.

Jason dumps out one of the bowls into the sink and cracks three eggs, separating the yolk from the white in a few moments. He looks up, expectant, at Dick's face.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. You're kidding me. I can't believe I was gonna do this alone. Hey, do you want to... not work separately?"

"I thought we were trying to go fast."

Dick shrugs. "I think no matter what I am _not_ gonna go fast."

Secretly pleased, Jason turns back to the eggs. He's trying not to smile at it, the quiet way Dick is pulling him back in. Jason's been resistant to every attempt at an olive branch anyone has produced in recent years, but apparently an olive branch disguised as a cake is enough to reel him in. 

For a moment, Jason thinks about mentioning his old room. _They kept it. Like a shrine. Kind of like your stuff back when you left for the Titans._ The words feel clunky and unwieldy on Jason's tongue, like they'll come out sharper than he wants. The thought of it, ruining this moment, chokes Jason up and he can't say a word.

"Jace," Dick says softly, like he had earlier, and _fuck,_ it works on him, and Jason looks up. Dick's eyes (blue, super blue, so different from the Lazurus green that greets Jason in the mirror every morning) are soft, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly with his smile. "You're good at this."

Jason's brain goes offline. He's frozen, heart beating ten times his normal rate, and all he can think is _stupid frilly pink_ as his mouth gets sticky and -- oh yeah. Water. He never got his water. Everything's moving in slow motion as Jason's pulse thrums in his ears _(please do not fucking blush),_ Dick's mid-blink, still woefully unaware of what he's doing to Jason.

He comes to a decision.

He sticks his fingers into the bowl of flour to his left and wipes it on Dick's nose.

The world stops.

Jason's thinking, _this is what they do in those movies, right? It's romantic. Romantic-ish. It'll cure the awkwardness. Right?_ And Dick's just staring at him. His eyes are locked on Jason, thunderstruck expression on his face, and nothing else. The silence drags on, and Jason's starting to think maybe he's fucked up when Dick blinks. It's astonished, like he's coming back into his body, and Jason opens his mouth to apologize.

A grin creeps up Dick's face, slow and evil-like, and Jason momentarily flashbacks to Robin, the first one, the one that mattered to everyone, the creepy giggle in the shadows Robin, and then Dick's dumping the entire bowl of flour on him.

He's stunned for a moment, unable to form any response other than _that asshole._

He reaches out blindly to the right. He picks up the thing his hand connects with first and flings it in the general direction he thinks Dick's in. It doesn't connect, so Jason reaches for something else (egg?) and throws that. He wipes the flour from his eyes, and Dick freezes mid-reach for the sugar bag.

Jason growls. "You just declared nuclear war."

"Oh fuck," Dick squeaks, ducking behind the island to avoid Jason's egg assault.

"I am going to destroy you!" Jason bellows, absolutely covered in flour.

He grabs the wooden spoon from the baking drawer and vaults over the island, hoping to ambush Dick. The space is empty, and Jason feels like a genuine idiot for a moment as he blinks, confused.

"You have a home-court advantage!" Dick yells from somewhere behind Jason. "Not fair!"

He whirls around to find Dick and is met with a milk carton to the chest. He catches it, barely, and chucks it back at the direction it came from. It explodes against one of the cabinets and falls, leaking pathetically onto the tile. He walks around the island, back toward the counter, turning slowly in a circle, eyes wide open for any pink frilly flashes. Dick's silent on the tile, and Jason wouldn't be able to pick up any sound above the adrenaline in his system. 

Jason picks up another egg and spots Dick, a flash out of the corner of his eye. He tosses it, and it hits the wall uselessly. He reaches for another egg and comes up empty. He dives for the strawberries, opening the carton and dumping them out, lining them up to make throwing them easier. Dick tackles him from behind, legs bracketing his ribs and forcing him to land chest down onto the strawberries. Jason grunts, surprised at the sudden weight.

Jason grabs for Dick, but he twists away before Jason can manage it. Jason flings his arm out as he stands back up, catching all the other ingredients on the counter and knocking them over.

Dick's on the other side of the room already, by the door, and Jason points a warning finger at him.

"Don't you dare think about leaving."

Dick darts toward the fridge. Jason vaults the island again, lands on the puddle of milk, and slides. He twists, unable to stop his momentum, driving his shoulder into the wall. It jars his wound, and Jason inhales sharply. Dick must be attuned to sounds of pain because he turns on a dime, looking back at Jason.

"Fuck," Jason swears, gripping the wound with his left hand, still braced against the wall. He stops, looks around.

The kitchen is a warzone. Flour coats every available surface, eggs are splattered on the walls and the ceiling. Cinnamon and brown sugar are knocked over the edge of the counter, creating a brown waterfall amid the piles of white powder. On the kitchen island, there are mashed strawberries, spread against the surface like the insides of a dead man. It is what could be very generously described as an explosion.

Jason's shirt is covered in shit, his hair has white powder in it that falls down like snow with every move Jason makes, and his shoulder is twinging with pain. His feet are wet with milk, his boxers are splattered with egg. In short, Jason is like a tiny, portable version of the kitchen.

Standing in the center of it, untouched, save for a swipe of flour on his nose, is Dick Grayson. He gives Jason a sheepish smile.

Jason counts to three, inhale, meditative exhale. 

He lunges, murder in his eyes.

He catches Dick, slides a hand to cradle the base of Dick's skull as he tackles, pinning him with Jason's weight. Dick wiggles, but Jason digs a knee into his ribs. Dick bucks up, nearly dislodging Jason, hands coming up to poke Jason's eyes out.

"Will you--" Jason catches Dick's wrists and pins them above his head. "Will you-- Fuck! Hold still."

Dick absolutely has no intention of doing that, panting and wild as he thrashes like a fish out of water. Jason presses a palm at the center of Dick's chest and leans down, aiming for Dick's mouth. He's absolutely not thinking as he acts, blood rushing in his ears.

He mostly gets teeth for his trouble, but the second they connect, Dick goes completely still beneath him. Jason's eyes are closed, half-afraid that if he opens them he's going to be met with horror, or hatred, and he's going to have to leave. And not come back. For real this time. Dread unspools itself in Jason's stomach, leaking messily everywhere. Jason squeezes his eyes tighter, regret climbing up his throat.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Then, gently, Dick kisses him back. He shifts until their mouths fit, and then -- yeah. He's kissing Jason back. He's kissing Jason back, and he's kissing Jason, and then.

Jason opens his eyes, hovering above Dick's face.

Dick's eyes are wide open, blue and bright, smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Took you long enough," Dick whispers.

"Fuck does that mean," Jason says, already ducking his head to kiss Dick again.

Dick meets him with his mouth open, the flat of Dick's tongue sliding against Jason's teeth. Jason groans, the warm, slick heat of Dick's mouth turning him on beyond belief. He slides his hand up Dick's chest to Dick's throat, to slide along Dick's jaw to angle his head better so Jason can stick his tongue down Dick's throat.

He must like it, bucking his hips up against Jason's thighs with no intention of escaping. He's whining slightly, a series of needy little sounds that make Jason lose his mind a little. Dick's hands are still pinned, but he doesn't seem to care, too preoccupied with sliding his tongue against Jason's, encouraging Jason to tongue-fuck his mouth.

Eventually, Jason remembers he needs to breathe.

He pulls away slightly, moving his hand from Dick's face to brace himself against the tile. A line of spit connecting Dick's bottom lip to Jason's tongue stretches between them. Dick's flushed, color high in his cheeks, pupils blown wide, eyes dark. His hair is even more fucked up than earlier even though Jason's like twenty-eight percent sure he wasn't even touching it.

Dick arches up, rubbing his hips against the vee of Jason's thighs again, smirk lurking behind the dazed expression he's wearing.

It completely blows every wet dream Jason's ever had out of the water. By miles.

"You're so--" Jason says, and kisses Dick again. "So--" Another kiss. "Stop it. I'm trying to talk."

"'m not doing anything," Dick pants. 

"Liar," Jason murmurs. He leans down, slides his nose along Dick's jawline, brushing his lips against the pulse point in Dick's neck.

Dick's breathing quickens. "You know--" he gasps as Jason flicks his tongue out to lick Dick's skin. "Timmy told me you got shot."

Jason makes a noise at the back of his throat, only barely paying attention. He slides his teeth along the sensitive line of Dick's trachea. Dick inhales sharply.

"It's hot. The... fuck. The gun thing. Don't tell. The scars and the crazy--" Dick arches up as Jason sinks his teeth into the bone of Dick's clavicle. "Fuck. Your bad boy thing really gets me going."

Jason laughs low in his throat. "Bad boy thing," he murmurs. Like Jason puts on a vaudeville act, or like he cares how people think of him. He licks the perimeter of Dick's ear, nibbles on the earlobe. Dick moans.

"It's your edgy bullshit," he gasps. "Don't pretend you don't know. You're a real--" Dick squirms. "James Dean type."

"Thank you," Jason whispers, lifting himself up to look into Dick's eyes so he can convey his sincerity. "I'm going to blow you now."

Dick grins, breathing still uneven. "Okay. Yes. You do that."

Jason releases his hold on Dick's wrists and slides down. He pushes Dick's stupid apron up and out of the way, kind of flipping it over Dick's hip. An image of Dick naked, wearing only the apron slides unbidden into Jason's mind, frilly and deeply tempting. Jason licks his lips and hooks his fingers on the waistband of Dick's sweatpants.

"You know, these were mine," Jason says idly, eyes flickering up to catch Dick's reaction.

Dick blushes and looks away.

He slides the pants down Dick's thighs, pooling them around Dick's knees. He's not wearing underwear and Jason spares half a second to wonder, before he just focuses on Dick's cock.

 _It's pretty,_ Jason thinks, vaguely aware of how weird some people would find that. He's circumcised, six and something inches, the tip of his cock is pink and leaking. It's flushed the same way Dick's face is, and, of fucking course, Dick's shaved and waxed his hair into a neat, manageable, shape.

Jason reaches out, gives it an experimental stroke. Dick arches his hips up, stuffs his fist into his mouth to muffle a groan, thighs flexing. 

Slowly, eyes fixed on Dick's face, Jason leans in toward the tip of Dick's cock. He braces his left hand on the kitchen tile, the right on Dick's thigh. He sticks his tongue out to lick the precome. It's salty, slightly tangy. It's not pleasant or unpleasant, which is honestly the best Jason could've hoped for. He sucks on the head slowly, slides the flat of his tongue against it like a lollipop. 

Dick whines, high pitched and nearing a scream. His hips jerk minutely, like he's trying not to buck up and ride Jason's face.

Jason shifts, ignoring his own straining erection, and goes down, inch by inch, agonizingly slow. Dick's gasping, pleasant little sounds that make Jason groan, which makes his hips twitch up.

The tip of Dick's cock rubs against the back of Jason's throat, so he slides back up even slower, dragging his lips against Dick's skin, careful of keeping his teeth away. Dick tastes heavy, thick and musky against Jason's tongue. He goes down slow again, and Dick makes a noise that's frustrated and turned on all at once.

"Can I--" Dick exhales sharply. "Ngh. Can I fuck your throat?"

Jason _hm_ s, a sound that might've been _yes_ if his mouth wasn't full.

Dick's hands slide into Jason's hair and tug, gripping hard as Dick starts to thrust. He's trying, Jason can tell, not to choke Jason, and it takes him a couple of minutes to realize that Jason doesn't have a gag reflex. His fingers tighten in Jason's hair and he throws his head back, heels sliding against the tile as he speeds up.

Dick's making obscene noises, and Jason can't help but mirror him, echoing every dirty groan right back at him. Jason's drooling so much saliva that it's wetting the insides of Dick's thighs, the dip where his thigh meets his hip, and Jason just growls.

"Ah-- fuck! I'm gonna--" Dick warns, letting go of Jason's hair, probably expecting him to pull away.

Jason bears down, takes Dick's cock until his nose touches the base. The second warning he gets is the sound Dick makes, keening and loud. Dick's cum squirts hot and bitter against Jason's tongue, and Jason swallows. He licks along the underside of Dick's cock until he reaches the head, which he sucks twice more and then releases with a wet _pop._ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dick's panting, arm tossed over his face. "That was embarrassingly quick."

"I'm just..." Jason says, sticking his hand into his boxers and touching his overheated cock. He sighs at the sensation, and Dick looks at him.

"Let me see," Dick coaxes, sitting up on his elbows.

He's looking at Jason's thighs with liquid _want,_ and Jason has to bite his lip to stop himself from coming at just that look. He slides his boxers down and takes his cock out for Dick to watch him touch himself.

Dick shifts minutely, adjusting to the slight weight of Jason on his lap, and the apron slides back down his thighs, and it's that, that image of Dick in the frilly apron, the pink satin touching Dick's bare cock, that makes Jason lose it. He strokes himself once, twice, and comes, splattering the stupid fucking apron. He groans, blushing furiously while Dick just looks at him, wide-eyed.

"Holy shit."

"Don't tease--"

"I can't wait to fuck you."

Jason closes his eyes and thinks _I am going to wake up in bed alone._

He opens his eyes. Dick's still looking at him.

Slowly, Jason pulls his boxers back up and slides off Dick's this to sit next to him. Duck half-heartedly pulls his sweats back on. Jason feels awkward, unsure of what to say, unaccustomed to being fully sober after sex. He thinks about that gag gift Roy gave him once, _101 Ways To Seduce A Man_ , and breifly considers trying a pickup line. They're not really looking at each other, and the silence stretches between them like taffy.

"It's not your thing," Dick says suddenly. Jason squints at him, worried he's having a stroke. "Sure, I'm into the bad boy thing, it's _unbeliveably_ enticing, but that's not what gets me going. It's you. You turn me on."

Jason smiles at him. "I've had a crush on you since I was fourteen."

"Good, otherwise this would be really fucking awkward."

And then Jason remembers.

He is covered in cake ingredients.

They trashed the kitchen.

Holy shit, they're in the _kitchen._ They fucked in the kitchen. Jason just screwed Dick _in the manor kitchen._

"Alfred," Jason whispers, all blood draining from his body spontaneously.

"Shit," Dick whispers, paling.

They scramble up at the same time, taking in the humongous mess they've made. Jason can see his new headstone: _R.I.P. Jason Todd, for the second time. Killed by infuriated Brit. Forever in our hearts._

The clock on the stove reads five sixteen a.m., which gives them two and a half hours until Alfred wakes up and comes down to start breakfast. They'll have to start with the eggs, mop up the milk, then sweep everything else into the garbage. Between the two of them it could take an hour.

"We still haven't even baked the cake," Dick says.

"Let's just... order a cake."

**Author's Note:**

> i absolutely posted this late and thats on unmedicated adhd


End file.
